Privilege
by ElspethElf
Summary: A 'What If' story of Sandry - born as a street-rat.


What if Sandry was not born as a Noble? Far from that, what if she was no more than a street-rat? (A stand alone) 

Response to challenge from the Dancing Dove. 

Reviews and CCs appreciated 

* * *

**Privilege **

by

**ElspethElf**

* * *

The alley was far from the main street leading towards the market. It was dark and narrow, filled with the stench of urine and rotting litter. The floor, black with filth was infested by hundreds of insects that crawled and hovered in all available spaces. Nobody ever set foot here. That is, nobody with money and expensive clothing that would dirty at the slightest touch of the grimy floor.

Sandry could not be picky. Beggars, after all, cannot be choosers, and if this was the kind of place that would provide her some shelter, who was she to complain about the smell and the dirt. What she _did_ mind, however, was the gnawing hunger that bit through her stomach.

Two days of steady rain had kept buyers and sellers at home, leaving the market nearly vacant. Only the occasional stalls were set up, and they attracted far too little people for Sandry go about unnoticed. People were tenser in bad whether. They guarded their belongings more closely, regarding everyone with suspicion and wariness. They laughed and joked less, wanting to make enough money so they can go home.

When people behaved like this, Sandry had no hope of stealing anything. And for two days she stayed hidden in her dark alley, waiting for the sun to come out so she could eat.

The worst part of waiting was being hungry. Or perhaps, the worst part of being hungry was waiting. Having nothing to do, the sheer tedium forced her mind to confront her stomach's painful demand for food. By the second day, she was forced to leave her shelter and delve the streets for things to eat.

She rummaged through a pile of litter, the mud-soaked banana skins and orange peels rotting in her hands. She could not let the grime bother her. She bit into the soggy mesh, tasting stale sourness and the hard texture of sand. When she finished, she moved onto another rubbish tip, her muddy hands picking deftly through the rotting food. She found a small chunk of cheese wrapped tightly inside a piece of tissue that was damp and stinking. The cheese was going green but she paid no attention to the colour. All she felt was a powerful need to satisfy her hunger. To stop the pains in her stomach.

Occasionally she saw other children, picking through the street in search for food. They came in twos or threes, sometimes in bigger groups. Sandry always hid when she saw them. This was their territory, she knew, and they didn't respond kindly to competitors. A loud clank alerted her attention as two scavengers; both boys and much bigger than her, rummaged their ways to her direction.

Silently, Sandry fled.

* * *

By the third day the rain had stopped and market life returned to its usual activity. Sandry could hear the distant voices that exchanged goods and haggled over prices. In her alley, she stood and examined herself.

A thin cotton dress covered her body, the fabric hanging loosely over her. Living in a place such as this, it was impossible for the cloth to escape the hungry clutches of mud, dirt and hundreds of tiny creases. It bothered her every time her dress got soiled like this. And yet, given her way of life, the sludge and grime was inevitable.

It was one of the great ironies of her life.

She ran her hand over her dress, smoothing out the creases. The little wrinkles slowly faded under her hand's command. Then she patted herself to rid of the dirt that clung onto the material. Satisfied that she won't stand out too much, she headed towards the market.

The smell of food was enough to drive her mad. Melted cheese on warm bread, sweet porridge with milk and butter, cakes and patisseries of all kinds taunted her eyes from every corner.

It was lucky that the market was so crowded today. Amid in making business, the stallholders were all too busy to notice the occasional bread and cake that disappeared from their stands.

Chewing furiously, Sandry wandered from one stall to the next, enjoying looking at the goods as well as the opportunity for something to steal. She stopped in front of one stall selling fabrics for clothes. The display was rich in colours and textures of everything Sandry could only dream of. One piece made her stare, and her hands reached without thinking to stroke it.

It was the softest and smoothest silk she had ever seen, dyed in a rich, deep blue. She ran her hand over the surface in fascination. For once, food was clear from her mind as she gazed, wishing that she could have a piece of this beautiful fabric, even the smallest scrap would do.

'Get yer dirty paws off it, yer little slattern!'

Sandry snatched her hands away in shock, and looked up at the glaring trader.

'Go on – shoo! Get away from my stall.'

With one last lingering look at the cloth, Sandry turned her small nose at the man and darted off.

Her hunger satisfied she began to study the people passing by, searching for a likely target. She had long since learnt that mage students were not worth stealing from. What she looked out for were merchants, lone traders, _Bags_ who were rich for the picking.

A fat, middle-aged man waddled past, his eyes half-closed in concentration, his lips muttering calculations to himself. He didn't feel the light fingers that crept into his pocket, nor the slip of the leather bag that disappeared into Sandry's hands.

She hugged the bag tightly to herself, delighted. She would look at the content later. Two more times she succeeded in pinching, never questioning how she always knew where the money was kept. It felt natural to her, as if she could detect the part of the fabric that was weighed down by the money.

Preparing to leave, gloating in triumph and success, she caught sight of a man in sweeping burgundy robe threaded with delicate patterns. He was tall and had a craggy face with bushy, salt and pepper moustache. He seemed alert, although the distant look in his black eyes gave her some hope.

She already had enough money, she told herself. The day had gone far better than she had expected, and she really didn't need anymore. But as she looked at him – no doubt, she thought, a rich Bag – her hands itched compulsively. She could almost _feel_ it, that large sack of coins resting in his robe.

People bustled noisily around her, nudging her out of the way. She hardened her shoulders and followed the man. Several times she approached him, but every time she was near enough, an odd fear seized her and her hand would freeze in midair. There was something formidable about the man, some kind of power and strength that made her afraid.

And yet, the thought of the money drove her on. She focused, hard, at the spot on his robe, the spot where she was sure the bag rested. She could feel it inside her mind, the woven threads stretched out under the mass of coins.

How easy it would be, she thought, if his robe would have a hole in the pocket. Little by little, she imagined the threads unravelling each other, loosening and undoing themselves until they separated.

She saw the bag fall before she heard the unmistakable thud and jingle of the coins. Before anyone would see, Sandry darted forwards and snatched her prize. It felt heavier than all of her previous loots.

She could hardly contain her excitement. It was a lucky day for her indeed. With her money, she wouldn't go hungry for at least a week, two if she was careful. And maybe, she thought, maybe I could buy that piece of blue silk.

Drunk in elation, she failed to see the shadow that suddenly loomed over her. The man had come back, his eyes intent on the bag in her hand.

Her first reaction was to run, but even as she did so she slipped in her haste and fell onto the ground. Nobody except the man came forwards.

'That would be mine,' he said, nodding at the bag.

Sandry clutched it against her chest defensively. 'I found it!' She insisted. 'It was on the floor and I found it.'

'But it is still mine. I recognise that bag.'

'Well you must've lost it. That's your own fault. You lost it, and _I_ found it. So its mine now!'

'I lost it through a pocket that was hole-free the last time I checked.'

Sandry glared, feeling sick with fear and anger. 'You don't need this,' she said fiercely, '_you've_ got enough money that will last you your whole life. But I haven't, and I need it to eat to survive and…and you don't need it, you _don't_!'

'Its all right, Sandry. Please calm down.' The man reached out a hand to help her up. She only stared.

'How do you know my name?' She demanded, aghast.

'I know more than your name, Sandry. I have been looking for you.'

Disbelief and awe made her speechless. Was this some kind of trick? Wasn't he going to turn her in for stealing? Her hand inevitably clutched the bag tighter.

The man noticed this and said, 'you can keep the money, Sandry, if you will let me talk to you for a moment. I suggest somewhere a little less noisy.'

When she still didn't move, he said, 'I'm not going to arrest you. I just want to talk, I promise.'

This time Sandry got up, studying him carefully. He seemed sincere enough, but she wasn't going to believe in a rush. At the slightest danger, she would run.

'Who are you?'

The man gave her a smile. 'My name is Niklaren Goldeye.'


End file.
